Блоги — Ян Таксюр

Народ і Супрун


                                                            (маленька трагедія)

                                                            – Уляно, серце, відпусти! –
                                                                                            Блага народ.
                                                                                            – Лети в Детройт, під три чорти!
                                                                                            Ти – знак скорбот.
                                                                                            Ти – знак біди! Іди, іди
                                                                                            В свій USA!
                                                                                            І не вертайся вже сюди
                                                                                            Ти – жах людей!

                                                                                            – Why? Why? Чому? Трива банкет! –
                                                                                            Кричить Супрун.
                                                                                            – Я не піду! Ти – піпл бед!
                                                                                             Який пустун!
                                                                                             Який нахаба ти, май френд,
                                                                                             І хитрий вкрай!
                                                                                             Якщо ти Путіна агент,
                                                                                             Тоді вмирай!

                                                                                              – Я не агент, я хочу жить!
                                                                                              А ти – мій біль.
                                                                                              І смерть підходить кожну мить,
                                                                                              І звідусіль.
                                                                                              В обіймах клятих не души
                                                                                              Твоїх реформ!
                                                                                              Де було радісно душі,
                                                                                              Там нині морг.

                                                                                              – Вам тільки б їсти у теплі.
                                                                                              А тут наказ!
                                                                                              Щоб жити добре на землі,
                                                                                              Багато вас!

                                                                                               – А хто ж рокам поклав межу?
                                                                                               Скажи-но, пліз!
                                                                                               – От цього, дарлінг, не скажу –
                                                                                               То наш сюрприз.

2019-05-22 13:01:00